


Braille

by 01020304



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:58:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/01020304/pseuds/01020304
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She will never admit this, and she'll look away if it appears that anyone might see her staring, but sometimes Quinn finds it kind of fascinating, the whole Braille thing. AU: Blind!Rachel</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Quinn Fabray is five years old, and it's her first day of kindergarten. She's already graduated preschool so she's not really sure what's left to learn, but her parents have assured her that this is important so she goes along with it. It's not all that different, except she stays until the afternoon instead of just for the morning, and she only knows a few of the kids so far.

They've been sent outside to play until their parents come to get them, and even though they were supposed to make a line and leave the classroom in an "orderly fashion", almost everyone starts running out the door as soon as it's opened. Quinn doesn't want to get her new dress dirty, so she stays out of the fray and leisurely climbs to the top of the jungle gym; she can see everything from up there, and she likes to pretend that she's a queen keeping an eye on her peasants.

Everything seems normal in her kingdom, until her eyes scan the corner of the playground. A tiny girl with brown hair is sitting in the sandbox, shoveling sand into a bucket and then pouring it out over and over again. She's caught Quinn's eye a few times during the day, mostly because she seems kind of scared. She wouldn't let go of her father's leg when he dropped her off, and she held their teacher's hand every time they left the classroom. Quinn isn't scared of anything in the whole world, except bees, so she's inclined to think that that this girl is not kindergarten material.

She's so busy staring at the girl in the sandbox that she doesn't even notice Santana Lopez joining her on the jungle gym until she pokes her in the arm. "What are you looking at?"

Quinn glances sideways at Santana. They go to the same parish and sometimes they have playdates. She is really sneaky and always steals her Barbie accessories, but when Finn Hudson throws sand in Quinn's hair at the park, Santana usually manages to push him off the slide and make it look like an accident, so they're kind of friends.

"That girl," Quinn replies, pointing toward the sandbox.

"Oh,  _her_. A boy named Noah told me she's a witch."

Quinn gasps and shivers involuntarily. She didn't know witches went to regular kindergarten. "How does he know?"

"You know that stick she has with her? It's a wand. And look at her nose. It's witchy."

"What do we do?" Quinn whispers. She's mostly only scared of bees, but also witches.

"You should go talk to her," Santana says with a devilish grin.

"Why don't you?"

"'Cause I told you to first. Why? Are you too  _scared_?"

"No! I'm not! I just…I don't think we should…"

Santana takes a deep breath and opens her mouth, no doubt to yell that Quinn Fabray is a scaredy cat, and Quinn quickly clamps her hand over the other girl's mouth. "Fine, I'll go, but only if you promise to let me play with my doll house next time you come over."

Santana scowls at her but nods her head in agreement, so Quinn hops off the jungle gym and starts marching toward the other side of the playground, looking back every few seconds to make sure Santana hasn't disappeared. The last thing she needs on her first day of kindergarten is to get turned into a frog while no one is looking.

She reaches the sandbox and stands in front of the girl digging her hands in the sand contentedly. She taps her foot against the grass, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement, but it never comes.

" _Excuse me_ ," she says peevishly, with her hands on her hips. This is terribly impolite, even for a witch. "You should say hello to me."

The other girl's head snaps up and turns toward Quinn. "Hello," she says with a small smile. "What's your name?"

Quinn purses her lips together. She's not sure if it's safe to tell her. "What's your name?" she asks pointedly.

"Rachel Barbra Berry."

It doesn't sound like a witch's name, so she takes a step closer. "My name is Quinn." Her first name is actually Lucy but she never goes by it, so maybe Rachel's spells won't work if she doesn't know that. "What's that thing?"

Rachel scrunches her eyebrows together in confusion. "What thing?"

"The thing  _right next to you_ ," Quinn snaps. This girl is definitely not smart enough to be a witch.

Rachel feels around in the sand next to her without looking down and picks up the white-tipped stick. "This? It's my cane."

Quinn wrinkles her nose. Her grandpa uses a cane. "Do your legs not work?"

Rachel smiles and wiggles her toes through her  _My Little Pony_ sandals. "Of course my legs work, silly. It's so I don't run into stuff or trip when I'm walking."

Quinn still doesn't get it and she's growing frustrated. "Why do you run into stuff?"

"Because I don't know it's there," Rachel replies simply. "My eyes don't work like that."

" _Why_? I'm the queen so you have to tell me."

Rachel's eyes widen in surprise. "You're a queen?"

"Yes, of this entire playground."

"Could I be the princess?"

Quinn lets out a sigh of relief, because witches  _hate_ princesses, so that Noah kid was probably just being a stupid boy. "Maybe. You can be the princess of this sandbox, I guess."

Rachel smiles brightly. "Yes, this will be my castle, and you are here for tea, okay?"

Quinn narrows her eyes because the princess doesn't decide these things, but she doesn't really have anything else to do, and Santana will never think she's a scaredy cat again if she plays with a witch, even though Rachel probably isn't one after all.

She sits down on the edge of the sandbox and smoothes her skirt primly, then looks to the smaller girl. "Princess Rachel, please bring me my tea."

Rachel grabs a handful of sand and throws it in the bucket, then swirls her hand in it for a few seconds. "It's  _magic_ tea," she says, holding the bucket out in Quinn's direction.

Quinn feels a chill course through her body and she realizes that she's made a terrible mistake and Rachel really is a witch and she's going to get a spell put on her and she'll never see her family again, or worse, maybe it will make her ugly, but then Rachel smiles and adds, "If you drink it, all your wishes will come true."

"Oh," Quinn says softly. That seems okay.

She pretends to drink it and wishes for a pony.

* * *

During dinner that evening, Quinn tells her parents about Rachel. Her mother immediately tries to steer the conversation in a different direction, but Quinn is persistent. Rachel's explanation was hardly satisfactory and she wants to know more. How can someone's  _eyes_ not work?

At first they think she's making it up, but Quinn's sister Avery is in eighth grade and she backs up her story. "No, I totally saw her too. You know those fags who moved in a few years ago? She's their…"

"Avery,  _please_ , I don't want to hear that kind of talk at the dinner table." She then turns to Quinn and pats her hand. "She was probably just born that way. Do you like your new teacher?"

" _Why_ was she born that way?"

"She just was. Don't worry about it, Quinnie, it's really not your…"

"She was born that way because her family is living in sin," her father interjects. Her mother sighs softly and places her hand on her father's shoulder, but he's already started and even at five years old, Quinn knows he can't be stopped when the vein pops out in his forehead like that. "People like  _that_ are not supposed to raise children, and this is God's way of punishing them for bringing an innocent child into the world, and now she has to live with the consequences of selfish, evil actions."

Quinn frowns. "She's not  _evil_."

"Quinn, just drop it," her dad says gruffly. "I don't want you to spend time with her."

"That's not fair! She's really nice and you don't even…"

Her father slams his hand against the table, causing their water glasses to vibrate. "Lucy Quinn Fabray, do not fight me on this, you will not win. Do not speak to her and do  _not_ talk about her in my house or anywhere else, for that matter. She doesn't deserve your attention or your pity. Am I understood?"

"Russell, they're five years old," her mother says quietly.

He lowers his voice and glares sternly at Quinn. "Am. I. Understood?"

Quinn shrinks into her seat and nods dejectedly.

At school the next day, she tells Santana that Rachel is definitely a witch.

* * *

 

It's been eleven years since their thirty-minute friendship in the sandbox, and Quinn mostly just tries to pretend it never happened.

It was hard in middle school, when it was decided that Rachel was among the lowest of the losers – the ones that the popular kids paid extra attention to, and everyone else shunned because they didn't want to be bullied by association. Quinn hated it, because she was such an easy target; it didn't seem fair. Her stomach twisted uneasily every time she saw someone trip the brunette or knock her books out of her hands (a favorite of Karofsky, because he had enough force to really send them flying). She resisted the urge to help when she would see Rachel searching clumsily on the floor near her locker for a book that had slid several feet down the hall, and she hoped that indifference would be enough to maintain her social status.

It wasn't.

She was recruited into the Cheerios and on the fast track to head cheerleader as a freshman; Avery had been Sue's star pupil, her ticket to Nationals four years in a row, and she was eager to get her hands on another Fabray. Quinn enjoyed the instant boost in status, but the pressure to assert her authority was getting to her. Most of the Cheerios were juniors and seniors, and they made it clear what she had to do to remain on top at McKinley.

Quinn Fabray was the first to slushie Rachel Berry.

No one could quite bring themselves to do it, which says a lot about how heinous an act it was. People seemed mostly concerned that they would get in trouble, because while the school administration and staff were woefully oblivious to what went on in their hallways, Rachel was on their radar. To a lesser degree, though, there was always talk about how much trouble she would have cleaning up afterwards and how she wouldn't have enough warning to brace herself for it. It was exactly the  _point_ of throwing a slushie on someone, but it seemed that when it came to Rachel, it was a line no one was willing to cross. So Quinn crossed it.

She'll never forget the look of absolute shock on Rachel's face, and the way she just stood in the growing puddle, shaking slightly, as if her brain couldn't even process how to react. A hush settled through the hallway and everyone turned to stare at Quinn, breathing heavily and holding a dripping, plastic cup in her still slightly extended hand. They were in disbelief, at first, but then the laughter started; a snicker, at first, followed by a few half-heartedly concealed chuckles. It spread until the whole corridor had joined in, some laughing because it would be social suicide not to, and some because they actually found it humorous the way Rachel eventually grappled for the cane she had dropped upon impact and fought her way through the gathering crowd to find a bathroom.

Quinn cried herself to sleep that night. She hated what she had done and wondered if the heaviness in her chest would ever dissipate. She wondered if Rachel was crying in her bed too, and if she could ever possibly forgive her for something so horrible. She wondered if God could forgive her, too, because even if Rachel's family was unnatural and sinful and Jewish, certainly He would never condone this. She prayed for forgiveness until she fell into a restless sleep, promising that she would never do it again.

The next day, Rachel was drenched in Slushie again, and Quinn didn't pray afterward; she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep.

* * *

Rachel is standing at her locker, running her fingers over the spines of a stack of books and placing a few of them in her backpack for the weekend, and Quinn is watching intently from the other side of the hallway. She will never admit this, and she'll look away if it appears that anyone might see her staring, but sometimes Quinn finds it kind of fascinating, the whole Braille thing. Frankly, sometimes she finds  _Rachel_ fascinating, because she's seriously not as inept as you'd think. She's probably the most put-together kid at this school, actually, if you don't count the way she dresses.

A nameless jock gives her rolling backpack a swift kick as he passes and it falls over, causing the contents to spill out in a heap at her feat. It's really quite benign, comparatively, but Quinn winces because Rachel just seems so defeated as she squats down and gathers everything into an orderly stack again. It must be her baby hormones making her crazy again, because she doesn't care about Rachel Berry.

Actually, Rachel is the one who blew the lid off the whole baby scandal and got her kicked out of Finn's house after she had already been kicked out of her own, so it's not that she doesn't care about Rachel Berry, it's that she actively dislikes her. She might have said that she didn't hate her, right after it happened, but living at Puck's house for a few weeks has made her feel differently. All he wants to do is play video games, and his sister monopolizes the TV with the Disney channel, and his mom is always trying to drag her to Temple. So maybe she hates her.

She hates/dislikes/doesn't care about Rachel, honestly, but Dave Karofsky is coming down the hallway with the biggest slushie cup available, and he has this satisfied smirk on his face even though he hasn't tossed it yet, which means he's going to be aiming for the sure shot.

Rachel has just stood up from organizing the books on the floor and she's pulling out her lunch pail, completely ignorant to the fact that Karofsky's getting closer and has his finger poised to pop the lid off of a giant cup full of corn syrup and ice.

It must be the baby hormones again, because Quinn is marching across the hallway and inserting herself between the two of them just as the jock launches the contents of the cup.

* * *

 

This is not the first time she's been slushied. It's happened a few times since she got kicked off the Cheerios, actually. But she's never taken one for someone else, and she's especially never taken one for Rachel, so this one stings literally  _and_ metaphorically.

She's scrubbing furiously at the nearest splatter on her dress with a wadded up paper towel when the bathroom door swings open. The telltale cane shows up first, and Quinn wants to shoot herself. How did she even  _find_ her?

Rachel enters the bathroom all the way and lets the door shut behind her. "Quinn?"

"What do you want?" she snaps.

"Kurt told me that it was you. I just wanted to say thank you."

"Don't mention it," Quinn grumbles. She may have saved the girl from a slushie, but only because she's pathetic enough as it is. They're not about to bond over this. "Like, seriously, don't."

Rachel sighs. "What flavor is it?"

Quinn briefly stops scrubbing and looks up at the brunette. " _What_?"

"What flavor is it? Cherry and blueberry won't come out easily, but you should be okay if it's lemon-lime or grape."

"Oh." It's little things like this – the fact that Rachel wouldn't know a slushie by its color but by its flavor – that Quinn never really thinks about until she has to. "It's blueberry."

"That is unfortunate," Rachel says with a cluck of her tongue. "I assume it's in your hair?"

Quinn nods before remembering that she actually needs to say something. "Yeah, it is."

Rachel shakes a small cosmetics bag in her left hand. "I have shampoo, if you'd like some help." She must sense the way Quinn looks at her as if she's certifiable, because she smiles lightly and adds, "I have a lot of experience. I could probably do it with my eyes closed."

Quinn huffs. She gets that it's supposed to be a joke, but she doesn't think it's very funny. "I'll be fine," she bristles, returning her attention to her dress.

"It's the least I can do," Rachel says quietly.

Quinn looks up again and sees that Rachel's unfocused eyes are slightly teary, and if there's one thing Quinn can't stand right now, it's crying. Because if Rachel starts crying then she's going to start crying and it will be a cold day in hell before she cries in front of her.

" _Whatever_ ," she says with as much indifference as she can muster. "Make it quick. I have things to do today."

(Her only plans consist of eating an entire sleeve of Oreos and buying maternity pants online, but Rachel doesn't need to know this.)

Rachel nods and advances toward the blonde until her cane touches the tip of Quinn's sneakers. She mutters an apology and takes a small step back before unzipping the plastic bag and pulling out travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner. After placing the bottles on the edge of the sink, she turns the faucet on and adjusts the cold and hot knobs until she's satisfied with the temperature.

"Lean down if you're ready."

Quinn obliges, letting out a soft breath when the spray of water begins to warm her freezing scalp. She hears Rachel squirt shampoo into her hands, and then she begins to gather Quinn's hair and work the soap through it.

"You have very long hair," Rachel notes casually.

Quinn doesn't respond because she's not really sure if it's a compliment or an observation, plus she just feels really weird about this whole thing and she'd rather not try to make conversation. Rachel doesn't seem to expect a reply anyway, because she just keeps at it Quinn's hair has been thoroughly scrubbed and rinsed.

"I think you're good," Rachel says, stopping the stream of water and pulling her hands out of Quinn's hair. "I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to stock my locker with fresh towels since yesterday's slushie, so you may have to make do with paper towels."

"It's fine," Quinn mutters. She'll just have to pull it into a ponytail until she can get home and take a real shower. "Thanks for your help."

"Of course," Rachel says quietly. "Thank  _you_."

Quinn throws away the paper towels previously clenched in her fist and exits the bathroom without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel always eats lunch in the choir room. It can get lonely, sure, but it's preferable to the alternative of trying to navigate the cafeteria when it's teeming with students who couldn't care less that she's trying to find her way to an empty table while balancing a tray in one hand and a cane in the other. Plus, she's able to get extra work done when it's just her; she sits on the tiled floor with her almond butter and banana sandwich and surrounds herself with class notes that her daddy transcribed for her, or sheet music for songs she'd like to sing in Glee that week, and no one messes with her.

Sometimes Mr. Schuester comes in and they try to carry a conversation, but it usually only lasts for an awkward few minutes before he excuses himself to go make photocopies or rearrange his volumes of English to Spanish dictionaries.

No one else has ever bothered her here in the choir room, so she's momentarily confused when she hears the door swing open one Wednesday afternoon, after Mr. Schue has already come and gone. She listens for some of the cues she's picked up (the sloshing of a Big Gulp cup, or the particular way Finn Hudson lumbers around like he's a giant toddler), but nothing is giving away the identity or intentions of the company she's suddenly sharing, so she turns her attention back to her math textbook and hopes that whoever has entered the room will introduce themselves or leave; something about asking "who's there?" makes her feel like the helpless blind girl that everyone thinks she is, so she makes it a point to never do so.

A chair nearby scrapes against the linoleum, like someone has practically collapsed into it, and then a soft, breathy sigh escapes her guest's lips, and Rachel has suddenly solved the mystery.

"Good afternoon, Quinn," she says with a smile. "How are you today?"

Quinn sputters for a few moments before forming an intelligible sentence. "How did you know it was me?" she demands. Rachel can tell from the way the fabric of her dress rubs against the chair that she is sitting up straight now.

"You sigh a lot," Rachel replies simply.

Quinn gasps. "I do  _not_."

"Well, you sigh enough that I was able to correctly identify your presence without any visual aids. Take that for what you will."

Quinn starts to sigh but then covers it up with a cough. "What are you doing in here?"

"Eating lunch," Rachel says. "What are you doing in here?"

"The cafeteria smells weird."

Rachel tilts her head to the side and gives a small, half-smile. "Fair enough."

* * *

 

The cafeteria must smell weird on a daily basis now, because Quinn keeps showing up and sitting in the chair next to Rachel, and sometimes they actually speak, and she doesn't seem to hate it.

Rachel doesn't hate it, either.

* * *

 

"You know what? I am really sick of swaying back here like a glorified back-up singer while Helen Keller gets  _another_ solo."

Rachel is sitting in the choir room again, but unfortunately, it's no longer just her and Quinn. Glee has been in session for approximately five minutes, and already, then tension in the room is palpable.

When Mr. Schuester approached her about joining the club, she was flattered but dubious. Obviously, she knew why he wanted her; Tina, Mercedes, Kurt, and Artie were talented, but Rachel's vocal abilities were unmatched. There was a lot that she could bring to the group.

She had never really worked well within a team before, and she was unsure of what exactly a  _show choir_ would require of her aside from vocals, but Mr. Schuester assured her that she would be a great fit. Her fathers agreed and urged her to join. They thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for her to make some friends and develop a real sense of community at school, a place where she could feel wanted.

It's been several months since the group's inception, and she's still waiting for that. She certainly feels needed; they would be useless without her, really. But  _wanted_? Never.

Rachel lets out a disgruntled huff in the direction of Santana's voice. "That doesn't even make sense. Helen Keller became blind  _and_  deaf when she was a toddler, which is  _completely_ different from my…"

"I cannot emphasize enough how much I  _don't care_ about a single word you've just said, Berry," Santana cuts in. "What I'm saying is, she might have a killer set of pipes, but she doesn't move with the music. We're not going to win this ridiculous competition if she just stands in the middle of the stage like a statue."

"We're also not going to win this  _ridiculous competition_ if the most talented vocalist isn't featured as often as possible. This isn't a dance recital," Rachel fires back, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.

"She's kind of right, Mr. Schue," Mercedes says. "Rachel's got a great voice, but this really isn't going to work for every number. Maybe this one should go to Kurt. Or me."

She wishes that she was surprised by her teammates' dissension, but that's hardly the case. A few times a week, someone gets jealous of her talent and suggests that her inability to see makes her a poor choice for lead vocalist. Clearly they've never heard of Stevie Wonder.

Mr. Schuester sighs. "I get what you guys are saying, I really do. But Rachel's voice is best suited for this piece and I don't think it's fair to make her sit it out. She's part of our team, and we're going to do what we can to accommodate her, just like we would with anyone else."

Rachel really hates when people talk about her like she's not in the room, but she appreciates Mr. Schuester's defense, regardless of how condescending it came across. "Thank you, Mr. Schue. I fully trust your judgment, and I hope that my teammates can follow suit."

"That said," Mr. Schuester continues, "It wouldn't hurt for you to loosen up a bit during performances, Rach. Maybe you could practice some modified choreography? Maybe someone could work one-on-one with Rachel? Santana?"

Santana snorts derisively. "As long as I won't be held liable if she falls off the stage."

Rachel is about to voice her concern that a fall off the stage in proximity to Santana Lopez probably wouldn't be an accident, but Mr. Schuester seems to get it.

"O-okay," he says slowly. "Brittany? Mike? Matt?"

"I'm spending all my free time training Lord Tubbington for a decathlon."

Mike sounds unsure. "Uh, well, I mean..."

"I'm going to decline on Mike's behalf," Tina says quickly.

Rachel has never actually heard Matt speak, but he must be shaking his head, because Mr. Schuester lets out another loud sigh.

"Come on, guys! We're a team!"

"I guess I could do it, Mr. Schue?"

Rachel smiles at Finn's offer to help, but it's short lived as light laughter fills the room.

"Rachel, please forgive the idiom, but that would be like the blind leading the blind," Kurt says.

"More like the extremely uncoordinated leading the blind," Artie supplies. "Bad idea."

"I'm sure Finn is a very good dancer," Rachel says with a smile. Mostly, she's just relieved that  _someone_  has volunteered. "At the very least, he's probably capable of giving  _me_ a few pointers."

"He's really not," Noah replies. "No offense, dude. And before you ask, Mr. Schue, no. I'm physically incapable of being that close to a girl without having sex afterward, and I have a feeling that Berry isn't going to put out."

Rachel's face burns and she slides down in her chair ever so slightly. She generally appreciates Mr. Schuester, because he  _does_  give her a lot of solos. She wishes that he could have left this alone, though. She  _almost_ wishes that he had given the part to someone else; it would be far preferable to being reminded that even if no one in the choir room slushies her, none of them are really her friends.

She's about to politely excuse herself (okay,  _storm out_ ), but then a new voice cuts through the chatter and quiets the choir room immediately.

"For the love of God," Quinn grumbles. " _I'll_  do it."

* * *

 

Quinn says to meet her in the auditorium at four o'clock sharp, because she has a lot of things to do and she can't sit around and wait for her all day. Everyone knows that Rachel is the very picture of punctuality, so she's inclined to think that Quinn really just wants her to know that she still has a social life - Rachel isn't quite buying it.

Last time she checked, it was five minutes past their agreed-upon meeting time, and she's getting kind of nervous. What if Quinn just wanted to see how long she would wait? What if McKinley's vast bully population is congregating outside and organizing an ambush? Quinn has been strangely civil lately, but it could have been a charade to get Rachel to let her guard down.

She sighs heavily and presses the small button on the side of her watch. It's 4:08.

Rachel is about to call her father and tell him to pick her up now instead of at 4:30, but then stage lights are flipped on without warning. The electrical, buzzing sound is unmistakable, and within seconds she can feel warmth on her face.

Light footsteps echo backstage, and she comforts herself in knowing that it's not a jock (the ground practically shakes when those mammoths are near). She knows that it's likely Quinn, but she's not going to relax completely until she hears her voice and confirms that she's actually here to help her with choreography.

The footsteps grow closer, and then they stop.

"Quinn?"

"Obviously."

"You're late."

"By  _barely_ ten minutes. I'm here now, so let's just do this."

Rachel takes a deep breath. She's not sure if she  _wants_ to do this. It's really hard to learn a dance when you can't see it, and it's even harder to dance in a group when you can't see the people around you. Couple that with the fact that they are on a stage with a drop-off that she can't see, and she thinks it's quite reasonable that she doesn't move much while performing.

Still, she knows that she could stand to relax a bit, and she really doesn't want to give up her solos. She nods, signaling for Quinn to begin.

Rachel jumps slightly when small hands settle on her waist and pull her forward. She tries to relax and stop herself from fighting against Quinn's lead, but her instincts tell her to pull away, and she ends up stumbling forward as a result.

"Sorry," Quinn mumbles. "Are you okay?"

She nods quickly. "I'm fine. Just…tell me what to do."

Quinn's hands drop from Rachel's waist and she takes a few steps back. "Start singing, and we'll go from there."

Rachel tilts her head skeptically. "There's no music."

"Do you  _need_ music? I thought you had perfect pitch."

Quinn's tone is teasing, but Rachel's surprised by the lack of venom in her voice; it's almost... _friendly_. They're not friends, though, so she doesn't let herself read too much into it. Instead, she starts humming the opening notes of the song she stands to lose if she can't relax.

Quinn casually throws out instructions as Rachel sings at a slow pace, and it's obvious that she's truly trying to adapt the routine. Part of her was afraid that she wouldn't make any effort to actually help (mostly because the Quinn Fabray she knows would  _love_ to see Rachel fail), but the moves are much simpler than the commands Mr. Schuester gives when the rest of the group is learning a number.

Still, just because it's simpler doesn't mean it's something she can do. She's  _not_ a dancer, and if this wasn't clear before they began practicing, it certainly is now.

"Rachel, when I tell you to step forward, you have to  _actually_ take a step forward. You're barely moving," Quinn says, her tone conveying obvious irritation.

"You try doing this with your eyes closed," Rachel snaps. "I'm afraid I'm going to bump into the piano or fall of the stage or something."

"Do you think I would let that happen?  _Really_?"

"I can't think of any reason to believe that you wouldn't."

Quinn scoffs. "Because I'm not evil? And also because if you fell off the stage and died, I'd probably get indicted for murder."

"Oh,  _that's_ nice," Rachel mutters. "Glad to know your intentions are pure."

"No one else seemed at all interested in doing this for you, so I don't really think you're in the position to question my intentions, Rachel," Quinn bites out. "Do you want help or not?"

"No, honestly, I don't. I don't want to do this. I  _can't_ do this. I'm done."

Quinn sighs, and Rachel can practically hear her roll her eyes. "Fine."

" _Fine_."

She immediately makes a move to grab her bag and cane from the top of the piano, but after a few steps, it occurs to her that she's not exactly sure where the piano is in relationship to where she's standing. Between the turns necessitated by the routine and Quinn's manhandling, she's actually quite disoriented.

Anxiety immediately settles in the pit of her stomach, and her breathing speeds up against her will. She tries to stop the chain reaction of panic, briefly, but it's useless - this is something she has never been able to handle. She's certainly capable of navigating an unfamiliar space, but not without something to warn her of upcoming obstacles. She's going to fall into the orchestra pit or run into a wall or tumble down the stairs and crack her head open, she just knows it.

That's what would happen if she moved, that is. So instead, she's just going to stand right where she is. For the rest of her life. Yes, that will work.

She barely registers movements to her left, and then the same small hands that pulled her forward with an uncomfortable amount of force are gently guiding her across the stage. When they come to a stop, Rachel hesitantly reaches out, and the smooth edge of the piano against her fingertips is the best thing she's ever felt in her entire life.

Quinn is gone before Rachel can thank her.

* * *

The next day, Rachel is prepared to surrender her solo. She spent her lunch period practicing a speech (because she's not going to let it go without some flourish), and as soon as Mr. Schuester calls the meeting to order, she sticks her hand high in the air and clears her throat.

"Mr. Schuester, I believe we need to have a discussion regarding my solo in -"

"Quinn and I have already discussed it, Rachel," Mr. Schuester replies cheerfully.

Rachel feels her face flush in anger.  _Of course_  they've already discussed it. Quinn probably took great delight in reporting back to Mr. Schuester about her unwillingness to learn the routine. She should have just gone along with it and then discussed it with Mr. Schuester privately. What was she  _thinking_?

"Mr. Schue, I can assure you, she completely misunderstood what I was trying to s-"

"I hadn't considered how uncomfortable it might make you," Mr. Schuester cuts in. "This club is about having fun first, and competition second, and we're not going to force anyone into doing something they don't want to. The solo is yours. We'll figure something out."

"Oh."

Rachel thanks him quietly, and hopes Quinn realizes that it's really for her.


	3. Chapter 3

They start getting thrown together a lot, out of nowhere. Maybe they're just hyper-aware of it because they're suddenly paying attention to each other, but they both feel really awkward when they're assigned as partners in Social Studies for a big class project. It's one thing to sit together for an hour during lunch; it's another to have to acknowledge each other's existence outside of school.

They agree to meet at Rachel's house, and as much as Quinn wants to bail (and as much as Santana has totally encouraged her to do so), she finds herself standing awkwardly on Rachel's front porch, waiting for someone to answer the door. The Berrys live in an older part of town where all the houses are squat Tudor revivals that kind of look like they were made by elves. It occurs to Quinn that they are exactly what Rachel would look like if she were a house, and she chuckles at this right as the front door swings open.

"Hello, Quinn," Rachel says, smiling serenely. "Welcome."

Quinn clears her throat to suppress her laughter. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Quite well, thank you," Rachel says daintily, stepping to the side and extending her arm into the entryway. "Please, come in."

Rachel offers to take her jacket and hang it in the closet, so Quinn sheds it and places it in Rachel's arms while she takes in the front room of the Berry home. She's never seen so many picture frames in her life. They're all of Rachel, of course, and she wonders if the diva even knows that she's living in her own personal museum. She probably does, and she probably  _loves_ it.

Rachel leads her on a little tour, pointing out the living room and the hall restroom and the study, and they finally stop in the kitchen, where fresh baked cookies have been carefully arranged on a small plate.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Rachel asks, walking toward the refrigerator. "We have vitamin water, orange juice with pulp, orange juice  _without_ pulp, cranberry juice, lemonade, rice milk, soy milk, almond milk, green tea, black tea, peach tea, and passion tea. And coffee, though regretfully, we don't currently have any brewing."

"Wow," Quinn mutters. "Um, do you have just…water? Regular water?"

Rachel's hand flies to her forehead. "Of course, forgive me. Do you mind if it's not bottled? We have a state of the art osmosis filter, so I assure you it's completely sanitary and much better for the environment."

"That's…yeah, Rachel, I'm sure that will be fine," Quinn says, placing her purse on the island in front her and slowly easing her way onto a barstool.

She watches with interest as Rachel walks around the kitchen, opening cabinets and reaching for things that she just trusts to be there. It occurs to Quinn as she's watching this that she Rachel hasn't used her cane at all, either. It makes sense, since this is her house and she probably mastered the layout before she could walk, but it's still interesting to watch her move around without any hesitancy.

* * *

They're sitting on the floor, and Rachel is chattering endlessly about the preliminary research she's done for their project, but Quinn is far more interested in shoving cookies in her mouth and checking out Rachel's bedroom. It looks like any other teenager's room, really, aside from the relatively bare walls. There's a television against the wall opposite her bed with several shelves full of DVDs surrounding it, an iPod docking system, and an open laptop on a desk in the corner. There's also a video camera set up on a tripod and an elliptical, which is not exactly normal but seems par for the course where Rachel Berry is concerned. She has a weird amount of stuffed animals, which Quinn would have definitely used for blackmail a few months ago, but now she finds it strangely endearing.

Her exploration is interrupted by footsteps echoing in the hallway. Rachel hears it too, and her long-winded explanation of early hominids trails off into silence as she turns her head toward the sound.

One of Rachel's fathers, tall, dark-skinned, and clad in navy blue scrubs, appears in the doorway. "Rach, dinner's in twenty. Can you come set the…oh, you have a guest!"

"Yes, Daddy, this is Quinn. We're working on a project together."

Quinn doesn't miss the flicker of surprise on Mr. Berry's face, and she can't blame him for it, either. If Rachel has told her parents even half of the things she's gone through at the hands of Quinn, it would be justification enough to literally throw her out of their home.

"Hi, Mr. Berry," she says softly, staring intently at her fingernails.

To her surprise, the man in the doorway smiles warmly, tells her to call him Leroy, and then asks if she'll be staying for dinner.

"Oh, no, I know you didn't plan for me. Thank you, though," she says.

"Nonsense," Leroy replies with a grin. "My husband has yet master cooking for a family of three; we'll have leftovers if we invite you and half the neighborhood. You'll stay."

Quinn's eyes widen at Leroy's declaration, but it doesn't sound like he's left much room for dissent. "Well, uh, okay. I'll stay. Thank you."

"Of course. And Rachel, I'll set the table tonight; you two finish up your homework."

After another smile in Quinn's direction, he backs out of the room and back down the stairs.

"Sorry about that." Rachel ducks her head in embarrassment. "They live to entertain. You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

Quinn shrugs. "I want to."

* * *

 

Dinner is  _really_  nice. Quinn can't even play it cool and act like it was just  _okay_  or  _fine_ , because Rachel's dads are ridiculously kind and so much fun (Hiram must have received a quick "Quinn Fabray is upstairs, Rachel appears to be unharmed, don't freak out" talk, because he keeps  _hugging_ her), and Rachel eventually loosens up and Quinn gets a glimpse of how much fun she can be, too. At one point, she breaks out the most spot-on impression of Ms. Pillsbury, and Quinn feels dizzy from lack of oxygen by the time she manages to stop laughing and actually take a breath.

By the time the misters Berry start clearing dishes from the table, her sides aches from laughter (and eating, like, four servings of lasagna) and she feels warm all over, and kind of sleepy and really, really content; it makes her think of Christmas, and how she would collapse on her grandmother's couch after dinner, still wearing her frilly dress and stockings, and fall asleep to the sound of the adults carrying on in the other room.

It is a school night, though, so she hesitantly suggests that it's time to head home when she looks at the clock on the wall and realizes that it's nearing nine o'clock. They all agree, though none of them want to see the evening end.

Rachel offers to retrieve her purse from upstairs, and even though they argued about it for a full minute, Quinn is honestly glad that Rachel is so eager; she has no desire to climb a flight of stairs after the meal she's just eaten. It's times like this that she really thinks people just misunderstand Rachel; she's not nearly as self-absorbed and oblivious as Quinn once thought she was.

She trails behind Rachel and enters the hallway restroom, because with as often as this kid is making her go these days, she worries that she won't make the ten-minute drive without stopping.

When she heads back into the kitchen to say her goodbyes to Leroy and Hiram, she finds them assembling Tupperware containers full of leftovers and she  _knows_ they're for her. "Oh, really, that's not…"

"Don't even argue, young lady," Hiram clucks. "These are going home with you."

"I couldn't…"

"You  _could_ ," Leroy counters with a smirk.

"I don't need…"

"You're staying with the Puckermans?" Hiram interjects suddenly.

"Yes…?"

"Aviva's cooking is a disgrace to Jewish mothers and gay fathers everywhere, dear. The only thing she's allowed to bring to Temple potlucks is bottles of soda. You need this."

Quinn lets out a loud laugh. "Last week, Puck and I came home from school and she was boiling a…"

A loud thump suddenly cuts Quinn off, and all three them peer into the hallway.

Rachel seems almost frozen on the spot, with her mouth hanging open in shock and her right hand cupping her nose. There is  _a lot_  of blood. The bathroom door, which opens into the hallway instead of out, is open and…

_Shit_.

Quinn left it open. Quinn did this. It's  _super_  obvious that she did this, of course, because she was the last person to use the restroom and no one else would have forgotten to shut the door, but she really wants to just start  _running_  and never, ever come back, because otherwise she's going to have to own up to this and she just  _can't_.

Leroy is the first to move, quickly making his way down the hall and pulling Rachel close to him. He leads her into the kitchen, and Quinn takes several steps backwards when she gets a closer look at the shaken girl; bruises are already forming under her eyes and around the bridge of her nose.

Hiram goes for the first aid kit, which is thankfully stored in the laundry room, just off the kitchen. Leroy has just helped Rachel onto a stool when Hiram places the tub on the counter and begins handing him the essentials.

"You're going to be just fine," Leroy says firmly, dabbing at the blood running down his daughter's face. He barely touches the left side of her nose and she shrinks away in pain. "I have to check, Rachel."

Rachel looks tearful. "Is it broken?"

"I can't say for certain, without an x-ray," Leroy replies. Quinn doesn't miss the knowing look that he shoots Hiram. "Don't worry about it right now, peanut."

Rachel's expression is suddenly less pathetic and more peevish. " _Daddy_. Don't call me that."

"Sorry, darling," Leroy chuckles, smoothing Rachel's hair with his free hand. It seems to remind both him and Hiram that Quinn is there, standing in the corner and watching the aftermath of this stupid little mistake. They both turn around just in time to see her slipping out of the kitchen with tears in her eyes.

* * *

 

Before the end of first period, the official story is that Rachel was such an annoying project partner that Quinn snapped and punched her in the face.

This is pretty annoying to Quinn, because she's putting forth an effort to be a better person; at the very least, she's putting for an effort to not be seen as the kind of person who assaults a blind girl.

But really, what's more bothersome than the fact that she's being accused of something so heinous is the fact that no one is really upset about it. In fact, this is the first time in months that she's been treated with even a small percentage of the respect she used to command from the student body.

Karofsky tries to give her a high-five and she feels sick to her stomach.

At lunch, Quinn heads toward the choir room with morbid determination. She has no idea what she plans to accomplish, because it's lose-lose either way, really. If Rachel there, she's going to have to face what she did and maybe Rachel will cry or something; she doesn't know, and she's afraid to find out. If Rachel isn't there, it means she's going out of her way to distance herself from Quinn, and that sucks, because it really was an accident and she feels terrible as it is.

Still, she marches down the hallway and throws the choir room door open without any hesitation, because she's going to get it over with either way.

As always, Rachel is sitting on the floor, eating lunch with one hand and lightly running her fingers over the pages of a textbook with the other. Quinn lets out a small sigh at the sight, and she's not sure if she's relieved or frustrated.

"Hello, Quinn."

Quinn lets her backpack slide off her shoulder and onto the floor a few feet from Rachel, and then takes a seat beside her. She gets her first good look at Rachel since last night and winces. "Hey."

"If you're checking out my nose right now, it's definitely broken," Rachel says nonchalantly. "I'm not sure if it's obvious. Does it look broken?"

Quinn is slightly taken aback by the sudden question, but she does her best to answer. A large majority of her face is bruised in shades of purple and red, and her nose is at least twice its regular size. She looks  _terrible_.

"It looks fine."

" _Quinn_."

"Okay, it's  _really_  bad, and Rachel, I am  _so_ sorry. You have to believe that it was an accident. I just wasn't thinking and I didn't mean…"

"Quinn, stop." Rachel reaches out until she finds Quinn's knee, and then she pats it reassuringly. "I know it was an accident. If I took offense every time someone unknowingly added an obstacle to my path, I wouldn't have time for anything else. It happens."

Quinn hangs her head morosely. "Do your dads hate me now?"

"After that? Hardly. They like you a lot, actually." Rachel says. "Really. "

Quinn smiles at this, just a little.

"I'm sorry about what people are saying," Rachel says, after a few moments of silence. "I've tried to explain the situation, but no one is really interested in what I have to say about the matter."

"It comes with the reputation. I'll live."

"Still," Rachel says. "I'm sorry."

Quinn doesn't acknowledge the apology this time, instead choosing to relax a bit in her chair and grab her lunch from the bag beside her. She can tell that Rachel has returned to her studying, and that it's probably math, because she gets this adorable frown on her face when she's trying to figure out quadratic equations.

They settle into casual conversation about Glee and their Social Studies project, but it's quickly interrupted by Rachel's cell phone vibrating against the tile floor and playing what is sure to be a Broadway classic. She reaches over and presses the speaker button, leaving it on the floor.

"Hello, daddy."

"Hey, peanut, how are you fee…"

"Daddy.  _Please_."

"Oh, are you not…oh, of course. Hello, Quinn!"

Rachel blushes and folders her arms across her chest as Quinn lets out a laugh. "Hi, Leroy!"

"Can we plan to have you over again soon? There's half a pan of lasagna in the refrigerator with your name on it!"

"Uh, sure!" Quinn says. "That…that would be nice."

"Maybe you can come earlier next time and we can break out a few board games! I don't know if Rachel told you, but we're avid Scrabblers. Do you play?"

"Well, I mean, not regularly, but…"

Rachel clears her throat. "Daddy, I don't mean to be rude, but what is the purpose of this call? I can give you Quinn's cell phone number if you'd like to arrange a Scrabble date," she says irritably.

Leroy chuckles. "I was just calling to make sure you're feeling okay. I left some Advil with the nurse, so you can stop by her office if you think you need it."

"I'm fine for now, but I might take a dose before my next class. Thank you for checking in."

"Of course, darling. Have a wonderful day. Oh, and Quinn, I mean it; we hope to see you again soon. Start brushing up on your vocabulary, because Rachel here is a…"

"Good bye, daddy," Rachel snaps, fumbling for the End Call button. Once the call has been successfully disconnected, she quickly composes herself and coolly returns to her book, though Quinn is pretty sure she's not actually reading it.

"So, uh,  _peanut_?" she says with a smirk.

"Don't even start." Rachel throws her head back in frustration. "They wanted to be surprised at the delivery, so they chose a silly little gender-neutral nickname for me while I was in utero and it stuck for awhile, but I hardly ever go by it."

"I think it's cute."

"Yes, well, it stopped being cute to me when I was seventeen months old."

Quinn eyes Rachel skeptically. "That seems like a very arbitrary age."

"It's when my severe peanut allergy was diagnosed," Rachel says blankly.

A laugh escapes before Quinn can suppress it, and then it's just  _over_  and she's laughing hysterically, because really, Rachel is the funniest person ever.  _Ever_.

She looks over to Rachel and sees her staring at her (well, kind of, in Rachel's own little way) with wide eyes and an expression of terrible confusion. "I'm sorry. I feel like I've missed something here."

"Well…the peanut thing…and then you said…and…" Quinn's laughter suddenly dies in her throat. "Wait, are you actually allergic to peanuts?"

" _Deathly allergic_."

It's quiet for a moment, and then Rachel giggles a little, and then they're  _both_ giggling  _a lot_ ; Quinn because otherwise she'll cry, and Rachel because she's realizing that she might have met her socially awkward match, and it's none other than  _Quinn Fabray_.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinn starts spending all of her free time with the Berrys, at first under the guise of their class project, but then because it's the closest thing to a home that she's felt in months. Actually, when she really thinks about it, it's the closet thing she's felt to a home in her entire life.

It's strange, though, because even with her spending most evenings and sometimes entire weekends in Rachel's home, sometimes she feels like Hiram and Leroy are her friends instead. Rachel is unfailingly kind and hospitable, but she seems guarded. Quinn notices how her fathers will brace themselves for an outburst if they decide to watch a movie she voted against or if someone is particularly on their game and kicking her ass in Scrabble, but she remains perfectly even-tempered and polite. They'll probe her to tell Quinn some hilarious story about her crazy piano teacher, but she will decline, saying that it's really not all that funny.

Quinn is frustrated, because she's really  _trying_  here. At first they were just sort of stuck together at odd times and Quinn realized that she didn't completely hate it, but now she thinks she might actually enjoy the girl's company, but it feels like the harder she tries to put Rachel at ease, the more she shuts her out.

It all starts to come to a head as Regionals draw near. They're rehearsing nearly every night of the week, long after the dismissal bell rings, so Quinn has pretty much just gone to school and then back to the Puckermans' house for a few weeks. She and Rachel still eat lunch together, but the brunette seems distant, and it eventually becomes clear why.

Finn.

He and Rachel have been this on-again, off-again  _thing_  for ages; Quinn initially joined the Glee club just because she knew that there was something between her boyfriend and that  _blind_  girl, and when Rachel explained to Finn that you can't get pregnant via hot tub, she freely admitted that her motives were not completely noble.

They keep going through this cycle where Finn expresses interest and Rachel throws herself at him and they're great for a few weeks, until Finn remembers that he's a shallow asshole and he can't handle what Rachel does to his reputation, so he comes up with a reason for them to break up without having to shoulder any of the blame himself. This is Quinn's view of it, anyway.

They're obviously in the beginning stages of another ill-fated attempt at a relationship, because Rachel spends every rehearsal clinging to him and laughing at all his stupid jokes and putting on a happy face even when she's clearly terrified to dance with him (who wouldn't be, blind or not?). It makes Quinn  _sick_.

On the Thursday before their Saturday performance, they all chip in a few bucks and order pizza, allowing them to eat dinner quickly in the choir room and maximize the small amount of time they have left to practice. They'll depart for Cleveland on Friday afternoon, so this is their last chance to work out the kinks in their performance.

By the time they're done, she's exhausted and still hungry and her ankles are swollen and Rachel hasn't said a word to her since lunch, and all those things combined completely justify the fact that she's pinning Finn Hudson against a locker and demanding to know what he's doing with Rachel.

"I could ask you the same question," he replies. "I  _love_  her. What are  _you_  doing with Rachel?"

"You…I'm her…I'm her  _friend_ ," Quinn finishes lamely. "And we both know that you don't love her."

"And we both know that you're a lying bitch, so…?"

"Be good to her." Quinn's voice grows dangerously quiet and she pushes his shoulder back into the locker. "I mean it. If you hurt her, I  _swear to God_ , Finn…"

Finn rolls his eyes and sidesteps Quinn's grasp. "I don't know if you're jealous or something, but seriously Quinn, just back off. It's not your business.  _Rachel_  is not your business."

With that, he walks toward the exit, leaving her in the hallway, seething and envisioning a piano falling on his big, stupid head.

She's still furious when she gets into her car and pulls out of the empty parking lot; everyone had left by the time she confronted Finn, and he was long gone by the time she felt composed enough to get behind the wheel.

She takes a left out of the parking lot and drives for approximately two minutes (long enough for her to get really into an angry song on the radio) before she catches the glint of a reflection up the road. It takes her a moment to realize what she's seeing, but when she does, she can't even begin to suppress her outrage.

"You have  _got_  to be kidding me," she murmurs to herself, speeding up slightly to catch up with the figure and then braking to a near stop once she's matched their pace. She rolls down her window quickly and immediately shouts Rachel's name. The brunette jumps, turning her head from side to side to place the sound, and almost loses her grip on her cane. Quinn kind of feels bad about that, except she really doesn't, because Rachel is being an idiot.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demands.

Rachel lets out a relieved sigh when she realizes that it's Quinn and resumes her stride. "I'm walking home, Quinn. May I ask what you're doing, aside from attempting to send me into cardiac arrest?"

"I'm  _driving_  home, like a normal person would at ten o'clock. Where are your dads?"

"Daddy is out of town and Dad's schedule prevents him from picking me up past five o'clock."

"Why isn't  _Finn_  taking you home?

Rachel scoffs at the contempt in Quinn's voice. "I didn't ask him to."

"Then you shouldn't have stayed late, or you should have asked someone else for a ride," Quinn snaps.  _You should have asked_  me _for a ride_ , she wants to say. "You should not be roaming around in the dark right now."

Rachel grins mischievously. "I do it every day, Quinn."

The blonde groans and rests her head on the steering wheel. "That was a horrible joke, and it's not what I meant. You have no idea what kinds of riff raff are lurking around, looking for innocent teenage girls like yourself. It's dangerous."

"You sound like the narrator for a Dateline special," Rachel says dryly. "I live less than a mile away and I only have to cross the street once. I do it all the time. Plus, I carry a rape whistle. I'll be fine."

"I'm pulling over and you're getting in my car."

"Thank you, but I'd rather walk. The weather is lovely this evening."

"That was not a suggestion, Rachel," Quinn growls. "I'm taking you home."

"You know, if I didn't know any better I'd say  _you_  were some variety of riff raff prowling for innocent teenage girls such as myself," Rachel says thoughtfully. "Trying to force me into your vehicle and what have you."

Quinn pulls up against the curb and puts the car in park, then exits as quickly as she can (if she had known that she'd be pregnant at this point in her life, she wouldn't have picked out a car that sits so low to the ground for her sixteenth birthday present). Rachel stops walking when she hears the door slam shut, allowing Quinn time to catch up to her and grab her elbow.

She knows that this is an overreaction, but she's just so  _angry_  about  _everything_  (and by 'everything', she means Rachel, and yes, she realizes the implications of these feelings), and she's overcome by how much she wants to protect Rachel and how much she wishes that Rachel would just listen to her and let her prove herself as a good person and a good friend and a good…friend. That's it.  _Friend_.

"Really, I appreciate your eagerness to help, but it's not necessary, so if you could just…"

"Not everything has to be this difficult," Quinn bites out. "Just get in the car."

"I'm not an invalid, Quinn," Rachel says with a heavy sigh. "I really don't need your pity, so please let go."

Quinn frowns. "I don't pity you, Rachel, I…we're friends. I'm  _trying_  to be your friend."

"No, Quinn, you're trying to be my savior. Your pregnancy has knocked out of your place in the social hierarchy and now you feel obligated to take on the school freak as some sort of project, or something. Is that it? I really wish you would just tell me what your angle is here, because I don't get it. Why are you doing this to me?"

Rachel's expression has shifted from lighthearted annoyance to true anger, and Quinn has the sense to let go of the diva's arm. Rachel pulls away at the same time that Quinn releases her grip, sending the brunette stumbling backwards several steps. Quinn chooses not to help her regain her footing.

"I really am trying to be your friend," Quinn says quietly, crossing her arms over her stomach. "That's all I've been…"

"We both know that's not true, so just stop, Quinn. Stop it. Finn and I have been talking about it, and…"

"Finn is an idiot, Rachel," Quinn spits, delighting in the way Rachel flinches at these words, because she knows they're true. "You deserve so much better than that."

"This isn't your business, Quinn."

"That's the party line, huh?" Quinn says with a snort. "Newsflash, Rachel, I'm the  _only_  person in that school who cares about you, so actually, it is my business."

Rachel laughs humorlessly and shakes her head in disbelief. "The slushies and the mean names and the pornographic drawings in the bathroom stalls…I haven't seen them, of course, but I hear that they are  _incredibly_  well done. It all makes sense now. You  _care_  about me."

She has never seen Rachel this upset before, despite the years of abuse she has watched her endure. The small girl is literally shaking with anger, and before Quinn can get another word in, she continues her rant.

"You took  _one_  slushie for me, Quinn, but let's not kid ourselves here. You'll have that baby and then next year you'll be the one throwing them again."

Instead of trying to formulate a reply, Quinn turns around and gets back in her car, slamming the door with enough strength that Rachel jolts a bit at the sound.

She drives away quickly, but her eyes stay fixed on Rachel in the rear-view mirror, until she's completely out of sight.

Quinn only catches brief glimpses of Rachel on Friday; she has no idea how a blind girl could possibly be this good at avoiding people, but somehow she's managing quite well. She wasn't even in the choir room over their lunch period. Quinn knows that they're on less-than-stellar terms at the moment, but she still feels hurt when Rachel never shows. They haven't made it an official thing, but they've eaten lunch together every day for a while now and Quinn knows it's not a coincidence that she's alone today.

She breaks the girls nose and they continue on like normal; she tries to help her home and Rachel loses it. It figures, really.

The day passes slowly, but eventually they're gathered around a large charter bus parked near the front of the building, and Mr. Schuester is giving some lame pep-talk that she's not really paying attention to, because she's watching Rachel instead. She has a pink, rolling suitcase, just like her backpack, but larger, propped up against the bus and she's holding her cane loosely in her right hand. She has her left arm looped through Finn's right, and Quinn presumes that she's asked him to help her navigate the myriad of unfamiliar surroundings she'll be faced with over the weekend. Jealousy burns in the pit of her stomach when he whispers something in her ear and Rachel laughs quietly.

After a few more platitudes about being winners no matter what happens, they begin lining up to enter the bus. Quinn ends up toward the back of the group, making it a lot more difficult to end up next to Rachel than she thought it would be originally. When she enters the bus, Finn has just sat down next to Rachel in a row toward the back.

"Finn, Mr. Schue asked for your help loading the bags."

He frowns in confusion. "He didn't say anything to me."

"Well, he changed his mind," Quinn says impatiently. "Go make yourself useful."

Finn shrugs and takes off down the aisle toward the front of the bus without another word. It's just  _too_  easy, really. As soon as he's completely off the bus, Quinn slides into the seat next to Rachel.

The brunette stiffens in her seat and Quinn wonders if they're both feeling rotten about last night or if Rachel's still really, really mad. "Good afternoon, Quinn," she says. Her tone lacks any indicators of what's going on in her head, and Quinn hates how good she is at that. "How are you?"

Quinn shrugs.  _I'm really hurt because I seriously thought we were friends and last night you were kind of mean, but the worst part is that everything you said was true._  "I can't complain. You?"

"I'm anxious to begin the competition," Rachel replies, crossing her hands in her lap primly.

"Stage fright, huh?"

Rachel shakes her head. "No, not at all. I'm completely confident in my ability to carry this team to victory. I'm just ready to have the trophy in my hands, that's all."

"Understandable," Quinn says with a light smile.

Finn appears on the bus a moment later. "He said he was fine."

"I must have misheard."

Finn rolls his eyes just as Mr. Schuester enters the bus with a bright smile on his face. "Let's all take our seats and we'll go over a few quick ground rules, and then we'll be off!"

"Uh, well, Quinn is in my spot, so…"

"It's closest to the restroom," Quinn says with a saccharine smile. "Sorry."

"But…"

"Plenty of seats up here!" Mr. Schuester says enthusiastically; Quinn is so glad that he's almost always completely oblivious to the goings-on of his club.

Finn shoves his hands in his pocket and sends Quinn a glare before slowly making his way to the front of the bus and slumping into an empty aisle by the door.

Mr. Schuester claps his hands together excitedly. "Let's get this party started!"

It's two hours into the drive and Quinn still hasn't managed to start a conversation with Rachel. The brunette has alternated between listening to her iPod and reading a novel they're studying in English, and she's made it clear from her clipped replies to Quinn's questions and comments that she has no desire to talk.

They stop at a gas station in a small town that Quinn has never heard of, and the bus immediately empties out.  _Someone_  rendered the bathroom unusable about thirty minutes earlier (Mike swears it smelled like that before he went in), so they've all been eagerly awaiting a convenience store amongst the nothingness of rural Ohio.

Quinn makes a move to get out of her seat when they first stop, but then she notices that Rachel doesn't seem interested in getting out. She asks Rachel if she'd like to get up and stretch her legs, and when the brunette shakes her head ("I have an exceptionally large bladder," she says, like it's something to be proud of), Quinn settles back into her seat. She could really, really use a toilet right now, but she's not going to miss her chance to talk to Rachel alone, or risk losing her seat to Finn.

When everyone is safely out of earshot, she angles her body toward Rachel. "So, about last night…"

Rachel's face flushes a deep red again and she immediately draws her arms close to her chest. "I don't think this is the appropriate venue for this discussion."

"I just wanted to apologize. I'm sorry for being pushy last night, and for everything that we talked about."

"Everything that I yelled at you about, you mean," Rachel says.

"Yeah, that."

Rachel purses her lips together and nods slightly. "Is the bus empty?"

"Yes, it is," Quinn says, with slight hesitance. For all she knows, Rachel is about to reach over and strangle her.

The brunette takes a deep breath and turns toward Quinn.

"I trust that you can understand why your unexplained friendliness has been disconcerting, considering our past. Usually when people are nice to me, it's an elaborate prank. So this has been confusing for me, especially because…well, usually I can just ignore it, but I can't ignore you. What I mean by that is if you're messing with me, if this is some sort of game, I won't be able to handle it."

"Rachel, I'm not…"

"Still my turn," Rachel says with a slight smile. "You can imagine that dealing with all of these new  _feelings_  about you, combined with the fact that you  _were_  quite pushy last night…"

"I should have trusted that you to know your own limitations," Quinn supplies, hanging her head like a scolded child.

"Yes, you should have. I felt cornered and I lashed out. However, this does not justify my behavior, and I regret it very much. It was cruel of me to suggest that your attempts at friendship were anything less, when you've clearly been putting forth an effort. Perhaps we can just start over with a newfound understanding of each others intentions."

It takes Quinn a moment to realize that Rachel is accepting her apology and offering one of her own, but she lets out a relieved sigh as the realization hits her. "So, we're good?"

Rachel smiles. "We're good."

They stop briefly at the hotel to check in when they arrive in Cleveland, and then they decide to get a good look at the convention center before dinner. It's a large, fairly new building where they host indoor car shows and consignment sales and the occasional traveling acting troupe puts on off-Broadway productions. It's not much to look at, really, but all they really need is a stage.

The bus pulls right up to the curb and they quickly pile out onto the sidewalk. They're already walking toward the building while Rachel is still feeling for the drop-off of the curb with her cane. She's stepped prematurely and twisted her ankles far too many times to assume that every sidewalk is the same. Quinn stands nearby, unsure of how she should proceed. She's not about to leave her to figure her way to the entrance herself (so much for Finn helping her navigate – she has to admit, she's rather glad that he's already proven himself an unacceptable guide) but Rachel might freak out again if she tries to help, and she'd really like to keep altercations like last night's at a minimum.

Rachel makes it onto the sidewalk without issue, and then just kind of stands there, biting her bottom lip. After a moment, she lets out a resigned sigh. "Finn's forgotten about me, hasn't he?"

"It would appear that way," Quinn replies, taking a few steps toward the smaller girl. "But his attention span is comparable to a puppy's, I think, so don't take it personally."

Rachel huffs and shifts on her heels a few times. "I suppose it would be terribly hypocritical of me to request your assistance after my behavior last night?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. Considering that Rachel knew she wasn't going to leave her stranded on the sidewalk by herself (she refuses to believe that she really breathes so loudly that Rachel can hear her), she should probably know the answer to this question already.

She closes the gap between them with a few more steps and nudges Rachel's arm with her elbow. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

After touring the performance building and grabbing a quick dinner, they make their way back to the hotel. It's unlikely that they'll actually get any sleep tonight anyway, but Mr. Schuester keeps stressing the importance of resting before the big show, so they're in for the night before eight o'clock.

Ms. Pillsbury strongly lobbied to sleep on the fold-out couch in Brittany and Santana's room, after Brittany let it slip that they could take another person ("We'll definitely only need one bed and we'll probably shower together too, so we'll be, like, super courteous roomies."), so the rest of the roommates kind of just fall into place; Matt and Mike, Finn and Puck, Kurt and Artie, Mercedes and Tina, and then Rachel with Quinn. A few months ago, putting Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray in a hotel room alone for an entire night would end with one of them in the hospital and the other in prison, but when Mr. Schuester passes out their room keys, they both smile.

It's a pretty typical hotel room, with two large beds separated by a small nightstand, a desk in the corner, an older TV with a channel guide propped up against it, and a small bathroom right next to the door. Quinn stands in the doorway for a minute, trying to scope out anything that Rachel might not anticipate, but the smaller girl immediately steps past Quinn with her rolling suitcase in tow.

"My dads travel a lot for work and they've never trusted babysitters, so I've spent plenty of time in hotel rooms," she explains, hoisting her suitcase onto the first bed. "Unless it's a suite, they're all laid out the same."

Quinn just blinks a few times, and then starts unpacking her suitcase as well, though she keeps glancing over at Rachel and watching the way she methodically places pre-sorted outfits in the dresser across from the bed, presumably in the order she plans to wear them. Quinn just kind of threw together a bunch of shirts with the two pairs of pants that still fit.

After unpacking the necessities and hanging their dresses in the closet, they both settle into their respective beds without much conversation. Quinn clicks through the entirety of the television's channels twice before settling on one of those terrible Nicolas Cage movies where he digs tunnels under the White House with a spoon or something. Rachel is reading a book, like always, but Quinn catches her snorting derisively on a few occasions.

"I'm barely even paying attention," Quinn says defensively. "I know it's dumb."

"It's  _ridiculous_ ," Rachel replies, flipping the page of her novel. "I brain cells spilling out of my ears."

Quinn crosses her arms across her stomach and frowns. "There's nothing else on."

"Then turn it  _off_."

Quinn turns it up instead.

They mutually decide to turn off the television and go to sleep a bit after ten o'clock, because even Quinn is tired of bugging Rachel with this dumb movie and there's really nothing much to do, and they have a long weekend ahead of them. Quinn turns off the lights and slowly eases into bed as Rachel sets the alarm clock she brought from home. When a feminine but slightly mechanical voice chimes that the alarm is set for six a.m., Rachel rolls onto her back and settles into her bed.

"Good night, Quinn," she says softly.

"Good night, Rachel."

"Oh, by the way, I feel I should apologize for my vehement reaction to your choice of entertainment earlier. I have a thing about Nicolas Cage. Sorry."

Quinn rolls her eyes, though she can't help but smile. " _Good night_ , Rachel."

A few hours later, Quinn has decided that it is definitely not a good night. She's spent the whole time rolling around on a lumpy mattress, the room feels too hot, and her back is killing her. She isn't comfortable on her side, but if she rolls onto her back she feels trapped by the weight of her enormous uterus and it's hard to get up when she has to use the restroom.

She bunches the blankets up and shoves them under her stomach as a last-ditch effort to find some relief, but it only takes a few moments for her to realize that it's not going to help. In a fit of pregnancy hormones and pure rage, she grabs the sheets and throws them off the bed with as much force as she can muster.

"Quinn? Are you awake?"

A hushed voice sounds from Quinn's left, and she rolls over to find Rachel lying on her side, eyes open.

"Yeah, sorry if I woke you," Quinn says quietly.

"I was awake anyway," Rachel says, waving away Quinn's apology. "I can never sleep the night before a performance."

"I just can't get comfortable," Quinn grumbles.

"Do you need extra pillows? More blankets? Do you want to trade beds? I can…"

"Is this 20 questions or something? Just go back to sleep," Quinn snaps. She knows it's mean and she feels like crap the second she says it, but she's not really used to having anyone around in the middle of the night when she feels like a beached whale, so it just kind of flew out. "Sorry. I'm fine, but thanks for the offer."

It's silent for a moment, and then Rachel quickly sits up in bed. "We  _could_  play 20 Questions!" she says with a grin. "Well, actually, I'm not really knowledgeable in public figures unless they're on Broadway, but we could play a modified version. We could ask each other twenty questions about the other, thus changing the purpose of the game but keeping it in line with what the title might suggest, and also helping us get to know each other better. We could both ask and answer twenty questions, or we could ask and answer ten each, totaling out to twenty altogether. That might be more reasonable."

Quinn snorts, but she can't argue with the voice in her head reminding her that this is what she might kind of love about Rachel Berry, so she totally goes along with this ridiculous game.

The questions are really quite benign, like favorite meals and most hated songs, and one awkward moment when Quinn, in a state of exhaustion and lack of clear-headedness, asks Rachel what her favorite color is. Quinn's face burns and she's sure her cheeks are the deepest shade of red known to man, but Rachel just laughs and says it's lavender ("that's a color, right?"), because she likes the way it smells.

Quinn's nervous after that, and it takes her a few minutes to come up with a question that is probably safe: "How'd you get the scar on your forehead?"

"I have a scar on my forehead?" Rachel nearly shrieks, her hand flying up to her hairline. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

The color drains from Quinn's face just as Rachel's laughter fills the small room.

"You are evil," Quinn murmurs. " _Evil_."

Rachel just laughs harder.

(Quinn thinks it might be her favorite sound.)

Rachel finally composes herself enough to actually answer (only trailing off into giggles a few times). "I was exceptionally mobile and pretty fearless, according to my dads. They usually had baby gates up all over the house to keep me somewhat contained, but it was actually my first birthday  _and_  the first night of Hanukkah, so they took them all down to accommodate the guests. Dad left me alone in the family room for five seconds to answer the door, and I crawled right into the corner of the fireplace."

Quinn grimaces. "Ouch."

"My Bubbe  _fainted_ , in case you ever wondered whether or not I came by dramatic flair honestly," Rachel says with a broad grin. "My dads never miss an opportunity to bemoan that I have stitches in my birthday portrait from that year. That's of little importance to me, though."

Quinn smiles a bit at Rachel's levity. Everyone says she's such an intense drama queen, but one-on-one, Quinn thinks she's one of the most relaxed people she knows.

"Okay, my turn," Rachel says. "Are you nervous?"

Quinn rolls over onto her side and props her head up with her hand. "Nervous about what?"

Rachel bites her lip, as if she's suddenly considering that this wasn't an appropriate question to ask, but then she just goes for it. "The baby. Are you nervous about having a baby?"

"When I think about it," Quinn answers slowly. "So, yes. Always."

"What are you going to…"

"Wait, wait, wait, it's my turn," Quinn interjects. "Why don't you go to a school for blind people? Wouldn't it be easier for you?"

"My fathers wanted me to integrate into the sighted world as quickly and seamlessly as possible. I suspect spending more time with the visually impaired would be easier, at least in the sense that my choice in clothing wouldn't be ridiculed as often." They both smile at this, even though Quinn knows that she's played her part in that over the years. "I'd have to face the real world eventually, though; it made more sense to just tackle it head-on from the beginning."

"How did it happen?"

It's the question everyone wants to know the answer to but she's pretty sure no one has ever actually asked. Quinn knows it's pretty personal and Rachel has never given the information freely, but she figures if Rachel can ask about her baby, she can ask about the unexplained events that lead to her current 'condition'.

Rachel shifts, as if the question has made her physically uncomfortable. "It's my turn."

"You've already asked ten questions."

She's quiet for a second, pondering this, and then her mouth drops open in outrage. "You went first! This is your eleventh question."

"Well, then the game is over, and I'm asking you as a friend," Quinn says simply.

Rachel frowns slightly, like this is a new concept, and then she takes a deep breath. "How did  _what_  happen?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You  _know_  what. How did you become blind? You never talk about it."

"That's because I never  _think_  about it," Rachel replies with a sigh. "I've never known anything else."

"Right, but I'm sure you know how it happened? It's not like you just came out this way and no one knows why, right?"

"No, it's not some big mystery."

"Then what happened?" Quinn suddenly feels like they're five years old again, and after briefly arguing with herself over whether or not Rachel would get the reference, she adds, "I'm the queen, so you have to tell me."

Rachel lets out a short laugh. "I've always wondered if you remembered that."

"I remembered."

Rachel smiles a little, and she seems to be momentarily lost in her own thoughts, until the sound of Quinn shifting on the cheap mattress brings her back to reality.

"I was born way too early, and a lot of preemies develop this thing called retinopathy of prematurity. It happens when blood vessels behind the eyes aren't developed properly and scar tissue develops; I won't bore you with all the details. Sometimes it can be treated and there aren't any residual side effects, and sometimes…well, obviously sometimes it doesn't work out like that. It's harder on smaller babies and ones exposed to a lot of oxygen. I was the size of my dads' hands and I didn't breathe without help for months, so I suppose it was unavoidable."

Quinn tries to speak but there's a lump in her throat that wasn't there a moment ago. This is a lot more information than she was expecting, and being pregnant herself, she probably didn't need to hear it. Her baby could be born at any time now and be just fine, but still, her maternal instincts are in overdrive and just the thought of such a tiny, sick baby makes her want to cry.

A few moments pass before she's composed enough to take a deep breath and try again. "Rachel, I…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"It's okay. It's hard for my dads to talk about it, but it doesn't bother me. I don't remember it, and I'm not upset about it." Rachel shrugs casually. "I'm lucky to be alive, really, so I don't see the point in missing something I've never had."

"Why don't you tell people?"

"Well, no one has really asked, but they'd still indulge in their favored theories anyway," she says lightly. "I'm the poster child for the evils of gay parenting and the wrath of God, and about a million rare diseases and freak accidents that don't even lead to blindness; it's kind of funny. Plus, my more gullible peers believe that I'm a  _witch_ , of all things, so they leave me alone."

Quinn feels instantly guilty at those words, because she's certainly facilitated rumors about Rachel for as long as she can remember. The witch thing was totally Santana, but Quinn is the one who brought God into it, and it makes her feel like shit. She is so  _done_  acting like she has any idea how God works.

"I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to, okay?"

"Thank you, Quinn, I would appreciate that."

They fall into a comfortable silence, and Quinn actually thinks she might fall asleep soon, until the stowaway inside of her starts doing somersaults or something. She tries to suppress the sharp hiss of pain that escapes her lips, but Rachel definitely picks up on it.

"Is something wrong, Quinn?"

"I'm fine. The baby is just all over the place."

Rachel nods in understanding. "I've done a fair bit of reading in regards to pregnancy, because while the Lima library doesn't have a great section of Braille materials that would interest a young girl, they somehow have a few medical textbooks in circulation," she says. "I'm not sure why; I certainly don't discriminate against the visually impaired, but even I would prefer a doctor with 20/20 vision. But anyway, I know that there comes a certain point during gestation when the fetus develops enough strength to kick with a force that can be felt outside the womb. I've heard that feeling it is quite the experience, but I'm sure it's uncomfortable for the mother-to-be."

"It sucks," Quinn says flatly. The baby shifts again and she groans dramatically. "I swear she's trying to find an escape hatch or something."

She turns her head toward Rachel and catches her smiling sympathetically through the small amount of light passing through the curtains, from the neon of the hotel's sign.

"Do you want to feel it?"

Rachel blinks a few times. "I… _what_?"

Quinn blushes lightly and bites her lip and now she feels weird for even suggesting it. "Nothing, never mind. I just…it's stupid."

Rachel hops off her bed and immediately finds Quinn's. She feels for an empty space (so she doesn't end up sitting  _on_  Quinn instead of next to her) and climbs up with a huge grin on her face. "I want to feel it."

Quinn quickly gets over her embarrassment and gets situated on the bed, scooting up to recline against the headboard. Rachel is eagerly waiting instructions at the edge of the bed and it makes Quinn chuckle lightly; not in the way Rachel used to make her laugh, when Quinn thought she was a one-woman freak show, but in the way that she's just Rachel and she makes her  _happy_.

Quinn tells her to come closer and Rachel immediately obliges. She's sitting with her legs crisscrossed, and they're so close on this tiny bed that her knees are pressing against Quinn's side.

She takes Rachel's hands and guides them toward the baby's favorite place to kick. Rachel just barely lets her palms touch Quinn's exposed skin, as if she'll break something if she applies too much pressure.

"Give it a few seconds and she'll…ow, okay, there you go," Quinn says with a grimace. "Did you feel that?"

Rachel's eyes grow wide. "I did."

Quinn smiles and takes one of Rachel's hands again, prompting her to press down near her rib cage. "This is going to sound super weird, but you might as well have the full experience, so I'll just tell you that over here? You can feel her butt."

Rachel lets out a surprised squeak, and Quinn isn't sure if it's because she just made the girl feel her baby's backside or because said baby seems to be training for the Olympics in there. Either way, she seems to be really, really fascinated by the whole thing and Quinn feels oddly comfortable just lying there while Rachel puts her hands all over her stomach, so it goes on for awhile.

The baby eventually falls asleep, and Quinn wants to thank every deity she can think of, even though it means Rachel will go back to her bed and they'll probably fall asleep as well; it's been kind of fun, like a weird sleepover or something.

"You know," Rachel says quietly, her voice shaking slightly. "I do find it a bit strange that I'm now well acquainted with your abdomen but I don't know anything about your face."

Quinn frowns, because what the hell does that even  _mean_ , and what is she supposed to do about it?

"I could, uh…" she trails off and lifts her hands from her lap, waving them in a move that looks vaguely like jazz hands. "I mean, I know that's weird, so if that's not okay, I unequivocally understand and wouldn't at all…"

"It's okay." Quinn nods quickly. "It's okay with me."

Rachel beams at her, like actually smiles so ridiculously wide that Quinn doesn't even know how her jaw is still intact, and fidgets with her hands for a moment, like she's working up the courage to actually move forward.

"Go on," Quinn says softly. "I really don't mind."

Rachel takes a deep breath and slowly reaches her right hand out. She's a little off course and grazes Quinn's ear first (at least, she assumes that wasn't her planned destination, but she doesn't really know much about how this works), but then she backtracks and finds her cheekbone.

Quinn feels like all the air has escaped her lungs as Rachel's fingers lightly trace every curve and slope, particularly when she runs a finger over the bow of her lip and keeps it there for a few seconds.

"You're beautiful," Rachel whispers thickly.

Quinn knows it's not even possible that Rachel has any idea what she's saying, but she still finds herself blushing. "Thank you," she replies. Her voice is high and breathy and it's stupid, and there are butterflies in the pit of her stomach. "So are you."

Rachel ducks her head bashfully. "I'm not."

"You are," she counters. She doesn't even know what she's doing until her fingers are tracing the other girl's face in the same way Rachel had explored hers. Rachel's eyes flutter shut and she notices the way the smaller girl's breathing changes slightly. Quinn's palms settle on Rachel's cheeks and she guides her to lift her head; it's not like Rachel realizes that they're making eye contact, but Quinn just doesn't want to see her cowering like she had been. "You're  _perfect_."

The brunette takes in a shaky breath and swallows audibly. "We should get some rest."

"Yeah," Quinn nods in agreement. "We should."

Except Quinn doesn't move her hands and Rachel doesn't try to pull away, and then everything just  _shifts_  and her hands are tangled in Rachel's hair, urging her forward, and their lips connect awkwardly and with a little too much force to call it pleasant.

But then Rachel tilts her head to just the right angle, and to call it pleasant would be somewhat of an understatement.


	6. Chapter 6

Rachel is up before the alarm goes off the next morning; she's not actually sure if she slept more than an hour, considering how long she lay awake before and after her trip to Quinn's bed. She still can't quite process what happened, and in the back of her mind, she's still worried that this is all some sort of huge, cruel joke. The thought makes her stomach twist with dread.

She turns onto her side and runs her hand across the bedside table until her fingers brush against the alarm clock and she's able to locate the large button on top. She hopes that Quinn is a heavy sleeper, because apparently it's only a quarter past five. It's late enough that she's just going to get up and start getting ready, but Quinn needs the rest much more than Rachel.

With a tired sigh, she rolls out of bed and begins slowly making her way toward the bathroom. Usually when she's in a small room that that she feels fairly comfortable navigating, she sort of just goes for it and if she bumps into a coffee table, she moves to the side and recalculates her route, no harm done; her cane is more a nuisance in small spaces. She's careful this morning, though, taking each step tentatively and hoping that there's nothing unexpected in her path. She listens for an interruption in Quinn's steady breathing or the squeak of a mattress, but by the time she reaches the bathroom door, it sounds as if she is still fast asleep.

Rachel uses her inability to sleep to her advantage and takes a long, hot shower. She lets her mind wander as the water sprays against her body in a sharp staccato rhythm; she thinks about the competition in a few hours and lets herself worry about it for about half a second, until she remembers that she's amazing and they will be fine. This leads her to thinking about her duet with Finn, and then Finn himself. He  _might_  be her boyfriend (she's never quite sure with him), and it's only just occurred to her that she has to consider him in this new situation with Quinn.

 _Quinn_.

Rachel thinks about the feeling of the other girl's lips under her fingertips, and then the feeling of the other girl's lips pressed against her own. She finds herself shivering at the recollection, despite the warm temperature of the shower stall. She's not sure when her feelings toward Quinn started evolving, nor is she sure exactly what they've evolved into; she just knows that her heart flutters a bit when she hears her voice and she feels a small jolt of electricity run through her body every time they touch.

She's drawn out of her reverie by a sharp knock on the bathroom door, and then a muffled voice declaring that she  _really_  needs to pee, and Rachel is glad that the spray of the water drowns out her dreamy sigh at the sound of Quinn's voice.

She doesn't count herself as an expert on love, but Rachel is pretty that if someone announces their impending bodily functions and your stomach still does a funny little flip, you've got it bad.

* * *

The morning flies by in a blur of makeup and hairspray and hopeful/panicked discussions about their odds at winning this thing. The only thing Quinn remembers with absolute clarity is how much she wanted to stab Finn in the face when he dragged Rachel to his table during the hotel's continental breakfast.

They haven't talked about it at all. Quinn had seriously considered that it might have been a dream, until Rachel came out of the shower with flushed cheeks, a goofy grin, and the inability to form fully coherent sentences; they  _definitely_  kissed.

It's already early afternoon, and they go on in less than half an hour. They're all restlessly pacing in the small room they've been assigned back stage, and the girls have decided to touch up their already perfect (well, as good as it's going to get, anyway) makeup in an effort to take their mind of their anxiety. Quinn does her own and then guides Rachel to the makeup chair before anyone else can; they're not as bad as they used to be, but it wouldn't surprise her if Rachel ended up looking like a clown thanks to Kurt or Santana.

They talk quietly amongst themselves as Quinn carefully applies a few strokes of eye shadow and gives Rachel a tube of lipgloss to apply herself – she doesn't need to be that close to Rachel Berry's lips right now. The brunette still seems slightly unsure about their most recent interactions, and Quinn doesn't blame her. She does her best to put Rachel at ease, but it seems kind of useless, because she's not particularly relaxed herself.

When she's done, she stands behind Rachel to survey her handiwork in the mirror. The smaller girl shifts awkwardly in her seat and smoothes her dress a few times. "Do I look okay?"

"You look great," she says softly, tucking a wayward curl behind the brunette's ear. Color spreads across Rachel's face, and Quinn feels her own cheeks burn simultaneously.

"You okay over there, Q?" Quinn's head snaps up and she catches a reflection of Santana's amused expression in the mirror. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine. It's just hot in here."

Santana quirks her eyebrows. "I'll say."

Quinn's fists clinch involuntarily, and she's really disappointed that Mr. Schuester enters the room and tells them to head backstage before she can punch Santana in the face.

* * *

Their performance is amazing.

Quinn kind of loves Glee club and she knows they've got a lot of talent, but it wouldn't be completely honest to say that she believed that they had a shot at winning. Whether this makes her a pessimist or a realist, she's not sure. All she knows is that she walked backstage intending to sing and dance with her friends and then leave without a trophy. They're the last to go on, and watching the competition only further convinces her that they don't really stand a chance.

But then they actually take the stage, and everything changes.

She's sure this is the best they've ever sounded, and the energy from the crowd is palpable. Her eyes stay fixed on Rachel for most of the performance; she wonders how it's possible that she manages to completely own the audience without being able to see them. If they win this thing, and now Quinn believes that they might, they'll owe it all to Rachel.

* * *

Before they know it, the performance is over and they're running toward their dressing room to await the judges' decision. Well, most of the team is running; Rachel and Quinn are falling behind because there are  _a lot_  of steps, which poses a slight hindrance to both of them.

"We make a good team," Rachel says with a smile, tightening her hold on Quinn's elbow as they begin another flight of stairs.

Quinn lets out a short laugh between huffs for breath; she's glad that Rachel can't see the sheen of sweat developing on her forehead. No one this pregnant should have to conquer this many steps. "Yeah," she says. "I guess we do."

When they reach the bottom of the last flight of stairs, Quinn stops short suddenly and leans against the wall beside her, causing Rachel to stumble slightly.

"Sorry," Quinn murmurs. "I just need a minute."

Rachel's eyebrows come together in a concerned frown. "Are you okay, Quinn?"

"Yeah, I just…" she trails off, unsure of how to answer. Maybe she's  _not_  okay. She feels hot and winded and her back hurts and she's really crampy for some reason, and being alone with Rachel is really hard because she's not sure if she regrets kissing her or if she wants to do it again.

(Actually, she's  _pretty sure_  she wants to do it again.)

"I'm fine," she finally says. Rachel's frown doesn't let up, so she adds, "You were amazing out there today."

As expected, the smaller girl breaks out a show-stopping smile. "Thank you, Quinn. You were wonderful as well."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I didn't have a solo."

"I was listening for you," Rachel says with a shrug.

"Oh."

They stand at the base of the stairwell in silence, until Puck appears in the doorway down the hall. "Berry! Baby Mama! You guys coming?"

Quinn pushes away from the wall with a sigh. "Yeah, we're coming."

Rachel grips her arm again and they make it about halfway down the corridor before Quinn suddenly stops again.

"Quinn, I don't mean to be rude, but could you please give me a heads up before you stop? It's for your sake, really; a little warning would have dramatically cut down on the amount times I've stepped on your heels in the past ten minutes."

Quinn lets out a sharp breath. "My water just broke."

* * *

Rachel has no idea what's happening.

Well, that's not exactly true. She knows about childbirth and she knows what's  _happening_ , but she doesn't understand how she got here. One minute she was struggling to keep up with the rest of the group as they rushed to get to the bus, and then before she knew it, Noah was helping her into a sterile gown and ushering her into the delivery room. Quinn immediately captured her hand (she'd know her grip anywhere, even though it's usually less sweaty and bone-crushing), and that is where it has remained ever since.

It's been ages, and she hasn't so much as pulled away to readjust the headband that's about to fall out of her hair. She wouldn't dare do that to Quinn, who is alternating between screaming obscenities at Puck and tearfully begging everyone in the room to just make it stop hurting. Rachel doesn't understand how squeezing the life of out her is helping Quinn, but it's apparently her role and she is going to treat it as the most important thing she's ever done.

She holds Quinn's hand for so long that it's almost confusing when her grip suddenly goes slack for the first time in almost six hours. However, when Quinn starts weeping with relief and joy, Rachel understands.

It's over.

And then the room is filled with the cries of a brand new baby girl, and Rachel feels the need to correct herself.

Nothing is over.

Everything is just beginning.


End file.
